


The Caliginous Saint

by Bubblie_Bunnie



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bubblie_Bunnie/pseuds/Bubblie_Bunnie
Summary: A refuge for immigrants and unwanted girls is a little heaven for the cast-out, motley lot. Especially for a recently injured French girl. She enjoys her life in her sanctuary with her friends. Until one day, a man stumbles into her life and reveals one too many unbelievable secrets about himself.





	1. Rideaux Écarlates

A young woman watched as those around her scurried through the hall, racing each other as they passed her. She tucked her long, pale hair behind one ear, and looked down at the cup she was holding. The cup filled with medicine her instructor ordered her to drink. She wondered if it actually worked, or if what her friend Anastasia says to her is true. She couldn’t help but lean in favor of Anastasia’s persuasion. After all, she was a youthful, highly-educated woman. If the frail girl would trust anyone it would be her intelligent, and wise friend. It was like killing three birds with one stone. She is intelligent and thus knows things, she is mature and proper and thus wise. She would never do anything to harm her or put her in harm’s way, and thus she was her friend.

She took another slow sip of the liquid medicine and scrunched up her face. The strange piquant taste of the liquid washed over her tongue and dripped down her throat. She scraped her tongue against her teeth in disdain. She pulled at her long, silky skirt exposing her lower leg. Her thin ankle wrapped in a strick of lacy white cloth. She wriggled her small appendage around. Satisfied that the swelling and throbbing had gone down quite a bit.

“Clari,” The young girl picked her head up. A woman with rich brown skin, long, coily black hair, and gentle pale green eyes wandering over to where the frail girl sat. They both smiled at each other, and the woman hugged her before sitting down next to her.

“Ello’, Ana.” She cooed. The woman planted a kiss on her friend’s hand, intertwining her fingers with hers. Their entangled hands fell between the two women’s laps.

“How are you?” The woman asked. She sighed in response,

“Ze’ medicine Ms. Ellies gave me tastes funny. But, at least she allowed me to put a little bit of sugar in it zis’ time.” Her friend watched her with warm eyes as she downed the remaining heeltap sitting at the bottom of the clay cup. She coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, “Excuse me.” She pardoned herself. “Do you think zis’ will actually vork’?” She looked up at Anastasia. She smiled, taking the cup out of her hand,

“It doesn’t have that awful opioid stuff in it, so I’d say you’re safe and sound, right?” She nodded, looking forward and resting her head on her friend’s broad shoulders. “I don’t understand why you’d have to drink that in the first place. You’d be fine if you rested for a few weeks, and let your ankle heal on its own.” She sighed,

“It was not all zat’ bad Ana. if anything it helped a little.” She looked down at her friend. She smiled up at her, “Ze’ awful taste distracted me from ze’ pain in my leg, at least for a little.”

“Well, I suppose that is alright.” She giggled, smiling in response. The two of them sat in silence, enjoying each other’s company for a few serene minutes.

“Is zere’ something you needed, Ana?” She looked down at her again. “I assumed zat’ you needed something. For the last couple of days Ms. Ellies has been driving you mad. You never see me anymore.” 

“Well, I would like to see my friend, and give her comfort, is all.”

“Thank you, Ana.”

“Of course, Cl-”

“ _Cl_ _aridamour_.” Both of the girls jolted where they sat. They turned to look at an older woman strutting towards them. She had a look of dark enjoyment that neither of the other two girls liked.

“Marita,” Anastasia mumbled, standing up, and helping her friend to her feet. The woman stopped, placing a sharp hand on her hip. She turned to the Brazilian, looking her up and down in a masked condescending manner.

“Ana.” She spat back. Claridamour looked back and forth between the two women. Both of which were taller than her, but Anastasia was a good inch and a half taller than Marita.

“Do you need anything, Marita?” The older woman turned to look down at her.

“Not me.” Her cavalier tone made both of the girl scowl. “Ms. Ellies does. She’s in the main hall.” She threw another judgemental glance at Anastasia,

“Is there more?” She glared down at her. Marita grinned, her upper lip twitching for a moment,

“No, that is all.” She snarled, before turning on her toes and walking away from the two girls. She flicked her long wavy brown hair over her shoulder. Anastasia scoffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. The puissant girl gave her friend as many reassuring words as she could;

“Do not let that banshee get to you Clari, you’re better than that old twig. Your injury is the only reason she’s the one leading the dance and not you.”

“Let's go see what Ms. Ellies needs.” She turned around and reached out to her crutch. Anastasia grabbed it for her off of the cushioned lounge she was resting on earlier and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” Claridamour cooed, slipping her right arm into the aid, and her left arm on top of Anastasia’s. She leaned against her prop, clinging to her friend for support as they made their way up the hall stairs. A few of the other dancers lined the walls. Some were whispering to each other, and others were peeking past each other and into the main hall. Others were doing both.

“What is going on?” Anastasia asked one of the dancers they were passing by. Claridamour turned to look at her as she limped through. Kumari was her name, she was friendly, but now she looked a bit nervous.

“There’s talk of bootleggers looking for a place to sponsor, and, well, they’ve found this place. They might be coming this evening.” Both of them stopped at the sound of the word bootleggers. Those gangsters have been causing too much trouble around New York. Their little sanctuary was not something that they’d agree to put into their line of fire. The safety of the endangered girls was a non-negotiable. They all prayed that the woman that took them in has the same ideals. 

“Why would a bunch of criminals want anything to do with an immigrant refugee querencia?” She shrugged,

“No one knows. Could you find out for us, please?”

“Yes, Ms. Ellies does indeed like you.” Another girl chimed in. Claridamour smiled, looking around to see that everyone was looking at her.

“Marita did come to fetch us a short minute ago, right?” Anastasia mumbled, glancing down at her friend. She nodded

“I vill’ see what I vill’ learn.” The girl continued their murmuring. A few thanked her, touching her shoulder or patting her arm. Anastasia and Claridamour continued through the scarlet draped entrance. The both of them entered into a grand vermilion and gold theatre.

“Ah, Claridamour, there you are.” Upon the dais, was an old woman that stood tall wandering around the massive stage on the other end of theatre. A packet of papers in her bony, polished fingers. They didn’t see any men or gangsters anywhere in the theatre.

Of course, the theatre house infested with many hiding spots. Many of which a full-grown man could slip into. Claridamour and Anastasia could attest to the number of times they and the other dancers would play searching games. In the rows and up in the balconies and sometimes backstage. Sometimes it would get frustrating, searching for people in every possible hiding spot. Then realizing that there are more-

“Thank you, Anastasia, you can go.” Ms. Ellies waved an absent hand towards them, not looking up from the packet. Claridamour looked up at her friend, who smiled down at her and patted her head.

“Go on.” She whispered, letting go of her arm, and helping her stand on her own against her brace. “I’ll be praying for you, Clari. Please know that.” She nodded, smiling back. Her friend grasped her hand as long as the distance would allow it as she walked away from her.

“Thank you, Ana.” The two girls reach stretched out enough, and their hands slipped out of each other. Her arm fell back to her side. She watched her as she turned and walked back out of the same place they arrived from. She turned back to face the stage, being careful to not lean on her crutch too.

“Claridamour,” Ms. Ellies called to her from the stage. She stood at attention and limped over to where she stood when she motioned for her to come here. “I assume you already have heard the rumors.” She glanced to the side, catching Marita grinning at her from the stands like a cat about to pounce upon its prey. The girl narrowed her eyes at her, ‘ _What does she know?_ ’

“Yes, Ms. Ellies.” She answered. The older woman up on the stage flipped over one of her papers. Claridamour thought it would rip halfway through turning it. She sighed, rubbing her wrinkling forehead.

“What is it that they are saying?”

“Excuse me, Ms. Ellies?”

“You heard me girl; what is it that they are saying?” She recoiled as the woman lashed out at her. Marita’s wicked grin grew wider.

“Um, zey’ uh…” The poor girl had to struggle to recompose herself. Her mind and heart racing in unison to gain some sort of sense and plan it out of her mouth. She swallowed, mustering everything her friends have taught her on correct pronunciation. “They, they say zat’ there are gangsters zat’ are going to be sponsoring us.” She tilted her head down, leaning on her buttress. She watched the old woman from behind her pale strands of hair. She waited for any sort of response from her, but none came, so she continued. “There is also talk of them coming here, zis’ evening.” She paused, almost certain that this would get something out of her, but it didn’t. She was convinced that it was her inability to speak without such a sultry, difficult accent that had comfoozled the old woman’s interest. Although, it is difficult to pierce the jaded woman’s emotionless, saturnine facade. It was a task not many have accomplished. “Zat’ is all, Ms. Ellies.”

After a few moments of painful and sharp silence, the older woman took in a jagged breath. “It surprises me no more the things you girls say to one another.” She drifted to the far right of the stage and stepped down. Her eyes swimming away from the papers she held so with her rough fingers. “When I was around your age, my peers and I were mute. No one could tell we could speak unless we were spoken to, or asked to speak.”

‘ _Such a depressing way to live._ ’ Claridamour thought to herself as the old woman glided over to her. Marita watched her with eyes like needles, poised at the ready as if to attack at any moment.

“I suppose you wonder why I have summoned you.” Ms. Ellies set the pile of papers down on the closest accessible chair. Clarimour nodded in response. The older woman’s ebony eyes met with her own pale, phosphorescent ones.

“Young girl, the maxim of the situation at hand is this. A small branch of a local cartel will be arriving very shortly. They will indeed sponsor us if they find that our establishment may deem worthy of their charity.” Ms. Ellie’s philippics are anything but insipid. It took the poor girl a few extra moments to interpret what she was conveying to her. Because of her very, very limited knowledge of the English language, it always was a struggle to understand basic English. On top of her extravagant bevy of words, her -what Anastasia has presumed it to be- Slavic accent made it no easier for her to translate.

“You will be my auxiliary. You will be overseeing every decision made of the hospitality of the men who must be observing us.” She looked her up and down. “Considering your current state, I presume you must have no spare time to be laboring on anything prior.” She wilted where she stood. Her merciless parlance would always tear down anyone who experienced it. No matter how favorable she found them.

“So.” The old woman stated. “Do you feel as if you suite this job?” Claridamour glanced over her shoulders. Marita’s guileful glare had hardened into a look of dark aversion. Claridamour took joy knowing that God was right. When one door closes, another opens. She smiled, turning back to her instructor, and nodded,

“Yes, Ms. Ellies.” The woman did not make any emotions she may or may not have known. She bobbed her head.

“Good. As long as you follow my every incremental judgment and instruction you will not fail.” The young girl blinked, already beginning to reconsider this job offered to her. ‘ _What if they talk as Ms. Ellies does? I won’t be able to decipher what they say any faster than what Ms. Ellies says._ ’ She mentally kicked herself. ‘ _You can do this Claridamour. Maybe she will let you have Anastasia as an aid, in case things get out of hand._ ’

Ms. Ellie’s adamantine hand clamping down on her frail shoulder. She had wrenched her out of her inner monologue. “I am regretful for your injury my child. This opportunity will vindicate you in more ways than one. I promise you that.” She smiled at her instructor. The young, meek girl knew more than anyone that she had a soft and pleasant core amidst all the thorns and phlegmatic exterior.

“I am grateful to you, Ms. Ellies.” A silhouette of a twitch pulled at the corner of the old woman’s faded lips. It was fleeting, but enough to urge Claridamour into an inner commemoration. Knowing that she has gained her mentor’s favor once more.

“Come now, my child. Such drab attire is not at all desirable to greet our esteemed guests.” She offered her arm to the young girl, so she took it with grace and appreciation. As she assisted her down the velvet carpet aisle, and back into the main hall, she realized that all the dancers have already been long gone.


	2. Robe en Velours

Claridamour was somewhat relieved when Ms. Ellies had offered to clothe her, she assumed that she would temporarily gift her one of her dresses. So this was much to the young girl’s luck. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, viewing herself as she moved as best she could. She was wearing a loose, flowing gown she had previously worn while performing a dance. 

The older woman attended to her pupil as she spun around in her own reflection. She would fasten a slip of cloth that wasn’t fully wrapped around her student’s arm or shoulder, all the while minding the girl’s wooden brace as she worked. She hadn’t seen her young mentee smile as she was now in ages. The youthful child’s joy cast light on the old woman’s own bitterness. For a moment, the fleeting sense of pride she held for this talented young dame had unearthed itself from the depths of the old woman’s scorn. She was happy once more, even for a few moments, before life resumed, and the pace quickened. 

“Come child. Quit your flitting. You must get ready, and cease wasting my time.” She placed both of her pale, delicate feet back onto the floor. She leaned on her staff and looked back at her sadly. 

“Yes, Ms. Ellies.” She cooed, fixing herself and clearing her throat timidly. 

“I shall fetch you from the commons once you are fit to present yourself to our guests.” 

“Yes, Ms. Ellies.” She echoed, tucking a lock of her pale blonde hair behind her ear. She began to limp out of her teacher’s study, post in hand. Her catawampus tone reverberating in her mind, like a poorly tuned violin, playing solely in an empty main hall. The mind-numbing thrumb echoing all around her, seemingly having no end in sight. Although, she was appreciative more than anything that she no longer had to wear those buntings, at least for the evening. She smiled down at herself. She didn’t truly understand why Ms. Ellies was fussing over her dress, it was more than modest. If anything, she looked like a barnstorming clown, fitted in a very aesthetic pale blue, yellow and cream flowy suit. Those were exactly her colors, and she loved the way she looked in it. 

The outfit aggrandized the young girl’s sense of innocence as she pranced down the hallway, accompanied by the aid of the wooden crutch attached to her arm. She wished she didn’t have this anchor constantly affixed to her every waking moment. It was a social anchor more than an actual physical one. One that would draw eyes to her, eyes full of pity and sadness. Pity for the little, helpless french dancer that can’t even dance. Or speak proper English most of the time. But she was getting there. With the help of Anastasia as well as some of the other girls who are more fluent in English than her. There are a couple of girls who speak English as a first language, and a few even offered to help her learn. But they were always so impatient with her and her big, sad pale eyes. 

Especially Marita. No one really liked her. She was always the anathema of every inner circle, or coterie, or just, anything in general. She is always so bitter, even worse than Ms. Ellies. That is probably where she got her tendency to disparage the other girls. They all have their theories, some believe that she came from a bad home and that is why she is the way she is. Others think she is the failed experiment of a witch and was abandoned in a forest as duff. Claridamour didn’t particularly like that theory. It was cruel and ‘unscientific’. As Anastasia so cleverly put it. Even if she was very knavish and enjoyed scheming, she knew that she just wanted to make Ms. Ellies proud, just as the young, french dancer wishes to. Just as everyone else in this refuge wishes to. 

The young girl tried to not think of such sad and unpleasant things. It was not like her to ponder such, depressing and frankly venial matters for an extensive amount of time. She has wondered in the past if God might have given her this injury to tell her to slow down. (After all not slowing down was what _caused_ her to become injured in the first place.) He just might be telling her that this is her opportunity to sit and think and ponder and reflect on things that _should_ be meaningful to her. There are indeed issues in her life that must be addressed, but she just never seems to have the time. Even with her ankle in the condition that it is in, she always made excuses and figured out ways to distract herself from her own thoughts. 

She wished that one of those diversions would come to her now. She felt like she was meandering down a strong river. She could physically feel her mind grow more and more numb to the creeping shadows of her own self-doubt. She ached for someone to appear and rescue her from this lazy, dismal doom. 

It seemed that God had heard her prayer. Anastasia had rounded the corner and collided into her friend. They both cried out, Claridamour staggered to regain herself, but her crutch slipped underneath the carpet. She groped for something to catch her. Anastasia reacted, lunging forward and wrapping her arms around her waist, holding her tightly beneath her. The meek girl’s hands clung tightly to her friend’s shoulders. Her bolster slipping out of her hand and clattering to the carpeted floor. The two girl’s eyes met, Claridamour’s pale blue ones met with Anastasia’s own deep, ebony ones. Her friend smiled apologetically down at her,

“Forgive me, dear Clari.” She chuckled. “I was just on my way to see you.” Her eyes lowered, staring at the gown her friend was wearing. Her rich, crepuscular eyes glued to the beautiful dress that hung so elegantly from her friend’s figure. She lingered for a moment, her lips parting and she swallowed. 

“Ana?” Claridamour whispered. Anastasia’s eyes snapped back to her cloudy blue ones. Their eyes connected for the shortest of moments before she straightened, pulling her up with her. Claridamour didn’t even realize that her heart was racing until Anastasia bent down and quickly picked up her crutch, and handed it to her. 

“Here.” She spoke in a hushed tone. She almost thought she saw her friend’s cheeks flush the slightest bit. Although she supposed that her own face was plenty rosy and reddening. _What in God’s name was that?_ She took her aid, thanking her. 

“You, um.” Anastasia looked up, motioning to the dress she was wearing. “You look stunning.” She only looked up at her. The sight of her friend’s milky eyes made her fidget where she stood. “Yes. Very winsome indeed, right?” She wedged the wooden brace underneath her arm, continuing to stare up at her. 

“Excuse me.” She huffed, bobbing her head rigidly and turning in a hastened flurry. Claridamour opened her mouth in an effort to stop her from leaving, but she had already rounded the corner and disappeared. She looked down, she was alone again. Her hand wandered up to her face. Her fingertips brushing against her warm skin, pushing back her abundant, voluminous, pale flaxen hair. Her heart thumped rapidly underneath her skin and bones. Urging something within her, something warm, comforting, and ancient to birth itself inside the confines of her, what she presumed to be, hollow being. 

She whispered a quick prayer to God. Begging Him to reveal to her what this feeling is. She prayed that it may never go away. She had not felt this, nothing like this, ever before. She concluded her prayer hastily and limped down the hallway, turning the corner and expeditiously heading to the commons. 

O O O O O

As soon as the other dancers saw Claridamour limping down the hallway towards the string of rooms, they all crowded around her. The poor, confused girl immediately bombarded with a plethora of questions from every angle imaginable. A few of her friends held her dress, feeling it and asking her where she got it. She tried to shoo them away as politely as she could manage. 

“Ms. Ellies gave it to me.” She smiled, taking back her dress and fixing it. “Uhm, vere’ is Laurne?” She leaned back and forth, trying not to seem rude as she pushed her way through the crowd, looking for her friend.

“Ah, right here. Claridamour.” A hand raised behind her, and the dancers parted for her to turn around comfortably. A stout, tan, Italian girl stood, waving to her. 

“What is it you need from me, my dear friend?” Claridamour swung her head to the side, trying to move her hair out of the way of her face. She limped over to her, glancing around. She did not see Anastasia anywhere in the crowd, much to her disappointment.

“Ah, I need your help. Ms. Ellies expects me to look my best. I am afraid I-”

“Say no more, my friend. You have my word I make you as beautiful as the socialites and celebrities themselves.” The girl took her pale shoulders into her rough hands, smiling down at her comfortably. 

“Lafatch! Get my things! I must work at once!” 

“Yes ma’am!” A small boy darted underneath their legs. A few girls squealed as he rushed by a little bronze blur. Claridamour turned but only was able to hold a moment of a glance of the little boy. She slowly turned back to face her friend, whose smile lingered. 

“Ugh,” she scoffed. “You have _no idea_ how long it took for him to get me to call that.” Claridamour giggled, taking the arm she held out to her. The dancers all parted and talked to both of them at once. Most of the questions that stuck to Claridamour’s hearing were ‘what did Ms. Ellies want?’ ‘is it true that there are going to be bootleggers coming to the theatre?’ ‘did she say how many?’ ‘did you see any of them?’. Laurne led the girl to her room, her dark gaze commanding the dancers to part without any words having to be spoken. 

Claridamour wished she was able to capture the attention of such a chaotic setting such as this as Laurne is able to. Anastasia is able to as well. But her compulsions are more brute and intimidation centered. In comparison to Laurne’s more dominating in pure presence and social confidence. None of which Claridamour possessed. She tended to simply blend into the wallpaper, and be swallowed by the crowds. If it were not for the crutch she bore, and the caution and pity that came attached with it, she would surely have been trampled to death by now. 

Laurne opened the door to her chambers, shutting out but not fully silencing the waves of sounds emanating from the dozens of dancers standing outside her door. The two girls looked at one another.

“Animals.” She sighed. Her frequent dramatic tone laced with her beautiful Italian accent made her the more humorous of the population. Claridamour smiled. Her pleasant levity never failed to raise the spirits of whoever surrounded her. 

“Now.” The girl straightened herself. “How may I be of service to you, my sweet little dove?” She took her hands into her own, helping her over to one of the beds within the stone room. She compelled her to sit. She called her her ‘little dove’. Ever since she was to dress up as a small grey dove for a specific dance, she never ceased calling her such. 

“I, vell’,” she hesitated. “As you may know, zere’ are going to be men-”

“Handsome men, I presume.” She grinned slyly, tapping her manicured finger against her cheek. She looked down, trying to conceal the blush blooming on the mantle of her cheeks. She tucked her hair behind her ear. 

“Erm, sponsors are arriving at the theatre. Zey’,” she paused, struggling to relay what Ms. Ellies had said to her prior. “Zey’ will be staying wiz’ us, for a couple of days.” She glanced up, the grin on Laurne’s gorgeous face only grew wider, forcing her face to grow redder. “Ms. Ellies has put me in charge of their hospitality. She said that I will be head of every decision regarding their stay here.” 

She squealed, clapping her hands rapidly, surprising the resting girl.

“Oh my Lord, may Mother Mary smile down upon me for what I am about to do.” She inhaled, her clasped hands pressed against her bright smile. “May she smile down upon you too, my fair blossom. For you shall be the canvas of my Holy work.” She blinked, looking up at her. 

“I have your tools here, ma’am.” Laurne’s little brother came flying in. Both of the girls looked up and saw just as the boy was closing the door, several faces peering into the room at the two of them. She muttered a brief prayer to God, to guide Laurne’s hand, and govern her every decision with wisdom and grace. 

“Good. You may get your reward from the kitchen.” She arrogated the large wooden box Lafatch held up to her. Claridamour watched as she dropped the box rather sloppily onto the bed next to her. 

“Now.” She clasped her hands together once more. “What look do you consider, my little dove?” She looked up at her, clueless. She almost immediately caught onto what her face was implying. “Do not fret, do not fret.” She waved her hands dramatically, reaching into her box and lining up her pencils and powders as she and the other makeup artists do. Laurne makes her dream known to anyone and everyone who will hear it. She wishes to become the most famous makeup artist in all of America and even the world. She wants to work for celebrities and socialites, people with power and grace and presence. People like her. 

“Please close your eyes, and hold your eyebrows taught like this.” She raised her eyebrows and held them in place with her hands. Claridamour did so, and she jolted when the sharp tip of the colored pencil brushed against her skin. 

“Hold still my dear.” 

“Sorry,”

“No need to be. I know it has been a while.” She wished she had an Italian accent. Laurne sounds so elegant and graceful. Like she’s not even trying to speak English. Like it comes naturally to her. She could not help but speak her mind.

“Laurne,”

“Yes, my sweet little dove?” 

“Vhat’ if I cannot speak to zese’ men? Vhat’ if I mess up, and they cannot understand me? I vill’ have failed Ms. Ellies…” The girl set down her pencil and took her pale head into her hands,

“Do not speak such awful things, my dear Claridamour,” She opened her eyes slowly, looking up at her friend with cold, sad eyes. “You know you can do this, and _I_ know you can. We all know you can. Ms. Ellies picked you for a reason. She knows how much of an amazing girl you are.” Tears welled up in her eyes, her heart ached for physical comfort. She ached to be able to walk without that awful hindrance. She ached to at least run down the hallways after her friends. 

She closed her eyes, leaning into her touch. Her tears spilled down her cheeks, she wished she could cry out and mourn the time she had lost tied up to her third, wooden leg. The bugbear of her nightmares has surfaced at last. She wished that her sadness could have come to her at a later time. Now was not the time to cry. But she was anyways.

“Come here, my little dove. Wipe your tears. You must be ready for your guests.” She ran her fingers along her face, her pencil following close after. “Such a beauteous face…” She spoke to her in a hushed tone. Claridamour felt undeniably heavy. She wished to rest, here, now. She did not want to see anyone. She wanted her dread to stop their consistent knocking at the walls of her mind. She was intimately enervated, her demons had won the night. She was in no condition to represent anyone or anything. 

“Look,” Laurne spoke. She opened her eyes and gazed upon her own reflection. She could tell it was her, but she wished she didn’t look so… beautiful. She did not feel beautiful. She did not wish to feel beautiful. She did not deserve to be beautiful. Looking upon herself, her unease doubled.

“I-” Larune placed the hand-held mirror in her hands, running her fingers through her fair hair. “I cannot…” 

“Tell me your troubles, my dear little dove.” 

“I cannot do zis’, Laurne… I vill’ make a fool of myself. Ms. Ellies vill’ throw me out-”

“She will do no such thing.” She looked up at her. 

“How can you be so sure?” She gave her a soft, beautiful smile. 

“Because she trusts you, Claridamour. She entrusts the wellbeing and future of our theatre to you. You and no one else.” She moved her hair out of the way of her sad face and leaned down towards her. She pressed her lips against her forehead. “I have faith in you. We all do. You’re a gorgeous, wonderful, talented, graceful, young lady who will seduce these men into giving us all their money.” The both of them smiled and giggled. Laurne caught Claridamour’s tears with the ends of her fingers before they could run down her cheeks. 

“But, vat’ if I cannot speak enough English, for zem’ to understand?” 

“You will always have one of us by your side, if not Ms. Ellies.” She placed another soft kiss on top of her forehead. “Do not fret. We shall be praying for you.” A sharp knock at Laurne’s door wrenched the both of them out of their emotional daze. 

“Claridamour,” it was Ms. Ellies. “It is time. Let us go, child.” She stood, Laurne handed her her crutch. Marita was not far from the old woman’s shadow. She stared at her menacingly as she took her bolster from her friend. 

“Thank you, for everything, Laurne.”

“Make us proud, my sweet little dove.”


End file.
